


miniature garden

by llien



Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Betrayal, Gen, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27427519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llien/pseuds/llien
Summary: For the first time, Vanitas felt dread.Reckless ambition had fueled him, had made him run, run,runlike fire was on his heels, raw electricity in place of his blood. There’d never been room for doubt, never a single hesitation over what this ending might be. He’d felt justified. He’d felt right.Hewas the rightful heir, and he would stake his claim with a glaive splitting the throne in two, until it cracked apart and bled its hateful deceit and lies.
Relationships: Sora & Vanitas (Kingdom Hearts), Vanitas & Ventus (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	miniature garden

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for the Vanitas appreciation anthology, _The Shadow You Cast._ I had the great honor and delight of collaborating with @Rouwan on our pieces of a vengeance-driven Vanitas. I'm so happy I could be part of this zine together with Mim ♥

For the first time, Vanitas felt dread.

Reckless ambition had fueled him, had made him run, run,  _ run  _ like fire was on his heels, raw electricity in place of his blood. There’d never been room for doubt, never a single hesitation over what this ending might be. He’d felt justified. He’d felt  _ right. _

_ He  _ was the rightful heir, and he would stake his claim with a glaive splitting the throne in two, until it cracked apart and bled its hateful deceit and lies. He’d drag his hands through that filth and down his neck like a necklace of daisies he was once given, and he’d take the crown of tarnished gold and rubies that cried for the blood of his forefathers’, and  _ nothing  _ would stop him then from being beloved.

Fingertips grazed his cheek, a gesture so sweet it froze him like the chill of frost. 

“For you,” his brother whispered, red-stained hand dropping to Vanitas’ and pulling his fingers loose from the hilt. He fumbled some, wet and unsteady, but shock was numbing Vanitas to any reaction. Something hard and warm was messily pressed into his hands, and his fingers were closed over it.

Vanitas uncurled his fist and found the necklace his brother had always worn. Something crawled up his throat, dug its fingers into the soft inner flesh and  _ pulled,  _ and grief became his friend as his breath hitched.

“It was always yours.”

* * *

Vanitas didn’t remember much of his early years. 

Vaguely, he could recall his rooms, possibly those of his parents — maybe even the face of his mother. 

The nursery his brother slept in was burned into memory, though. He couldn’t forget it if he tried.

Pretty lace and draping fabrics, a balcony that let in crisp morning air and golden sunlight, overlooking the far scape of snow-capped mountains that delineated the border between their kingdom and the neighboring one. He remembered the soft plush rug he’d lay on, head pillowed on his arms as the newborn reached up to try and grasp his hair. He could even vaguely remember carrying his brother.

But, soon after politics and intrigue and all manner of bullshit Vanitas didn’t care for swept him up in a fire, evidence scalded into his back and on his arms, a disfigurement he’d long since accepted. A four year old couldn’t remember their parents were royalty — couldn’t remember  _ he  _ was the first born prince.

Until now.

Vanitas stared down at the old man dead in his bed. He’d been so gracious to adopt him, so  _ kind.  _ His lip curled in a sneer, staring down at the shriveled flesh that had been burdened with his existence. The grand home they’d lived in engulfed Vanitas, and always had. The fine rugs, plush carpets, heavy draperies, the somber brick and towering columns, the quiet servants — how no matter how many windows were open and candles lit, fear permeated every pathetic inch of the manor — all suited his status as a prince.

It was amazing, how revolutions could fall apart with the death of one man.

He turned on his heel, ignoring Xehanort’s dying words, the concerned looks of the staff, the luxury of the manor that had never been  _ home,  _ simply a place filled with cruelty and disdain. On his back were new scars, criss crossing over the scalding burns of his youth.

Vanitas had no need for sentimentality.

* * *

The castle was burning.

The acrid smoke of it filled his nose, the heat singing the fine hairs on his arms bare. It was an oppressive, demanding heat. It pressed in close, wrapped around him like a suffocating, unrefined cotton blanket, chafing and rough and unkind. He coughed, bent double and wracking as he braced himself against hot stone wall that had only ever been cold in his memory.

The windows along the hall that acted as a bridge between the turrets and the east wing was clouded with smoke that threatened to shatter the glass. The mountains of his childhood were obfuscated by the rampaging fires devouring his once-home. He knew the sun was beginning its descent, crawling towards the horizon.

Vanitas spat and straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and ignoring the taste of ash. 

Alone, his armor clanked as he continued down the carpeted hall, bloodied footsteps trailing in his wake. His glaive glistened with red, dripping down from its sharp, two-tong curved ends to curl around its hilt, dripping over Vanitas’ leather clad hands. 

Almost everyone in the castle was either dead, dying, or fleeing from the war-path, but Vanitas didn’t care to chase them down anymore. He’d just wanted to take down the edifice that was a gold and white blight in Vanitas’ life, and now it was going down in glory and vengeance.

Just up ahead was the throne room, his final stop. He swirled the glaive around and flicked the stains off, readying himself. 

This was his birthright.

* * *

Hay, Vanitas decided, was a lot kinder than down feathers. 

He reeked of horse, there was  _ definitely  _ a spider somewhere in his hair, and Vanitas didn’t think he’d ever woken up more sore from doing nothing but laying down for hours. With a groan, he shuffled around in place, trying to figure out what had woken him up. It wasn’t until bright, pristine morning light crested his face that Vanitas realized several things at once.

He’d crashed in some stranger’s barn, he was there  _ unknown,  _ and someone was walking in.

He snapped his eyes open and met startlingly kind green eyes. 

“Easy there,” green and blond and smiling said, the light hiding much of anything else as it haloed his figure. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” He pointed towards Vanitas’ hand.

He looked down to where he’d impulsively curled his fingers tight around his glaive’s hilt, gloves creaking with the pressure as he forced soft leather to strain. Instead of listening, he tightened his grip, glaring up at the stranger as he gathered his wits. There was a window on the hayloft, accessible by a ladder just past the stranger, to the right. If he got the element of surprise on his side, he could make it and leap out the window, with half a prayer that something could cushion his fall. 

It was a shame. He’d been kind of hoping to steal a horse. 

“Come on,” Green Eyes laughed, but not mockingly. “I was in here earlier and you were out like a light. I brought you water.” He held up a pitcher and a cup, and Vanitas squinted at him. Slowly, he gathered himself together, warily keeping an eye on the stranger even though  _ Vanitas  _ was the one trespassing. Escaping from the only shelter you’d known for most of your life with nothing but the clothes on your back and a weapon with no use hadn’t been the brightest of his ideas. He stood, refusing to awkwardly shift around even though the hay had gotten  _ everywhere.  _

Green Eyes and Blond held up the pitcher. The barn Vanitas had taken refuge in was well-built but it was cold outside, frigid air whistling against the wood and sneaking in through the cracks, making Vanitas hold back a tell-tale shiver. “So?”

Vanitas lifted his chin. 

“I swear it’s not poisoned.”

“Of course you would,” Vanitas spat.

With a put-out sigh, the stranger lifted the pitcher to his mouth and drank straight from it in large gulps, some of it spilling out. He let up with a satisfied sigh, swirling the pitcher around, the water inside sloshing. “I was pretty thirsty anyways. You still don’t want any?”

Vanitas stared for a long moment, then looked away, holding his hand out for the cup. “...you put your mouth on it. Gross.”

The stranger laughed, bright and clear. “My name’s Ventus,” he said, placing the cup gingerly in Vanitas’ hand and pouring the water in. “But you can call me Ven.”

* * *

The year after he’d been cast out was fuzzy to Vanitas.

He never could remember the details. One day he was playing with Sora in his gilded quarters, sheltered and at peace, the next he couldn’t find anyone he knew, the next he knew  _ hunger,  _ the next  _ dehydration,  _ the next his stone-cold room in Xehanort’s hidden manor, where he’d been raised primed like a fighting dog — he thought, maybe, it was almost a blessing he didn’t know. 

His glaive trailed behind him on the floor, scraping the stone and announcing his presence. He’d been taken so young, he couldn’t even remember the way to the throne room, even though he remembered it well enough. The tall, sanctimonious chairs, the banners drifting from the supports, the stained glass dome ceiling that had dazzled him as a child, a rainbow of colors on the floor he and Sora had eagerly hopped around on.

_ Why, _ he wondered bitterly.  _ Why didn’t they want me? What’s wrong with me? _

He shoved the doors open with a boot, and found the throne room empty save Sora.

The crown prince stood in the middle of the stained glass mirage, head tilted up the ceiling. It was hard to tell with the beautiful cascade of light, but his hair was brown, and suddenly Vanitas fiercely wanted to see his face. He was dressed fit for a prince, Vanitas thought sarcastically, and as he should’ve been. 

It was the day of his coronation, after all.

Sora turned to look at him, and against all reason he smiled. “Vanitas,” he breathed, barely a whisper on the air-choked heat of the room as the fire grew, “you came back.”

* * *

“Come on, you look half-dead. Come inside for some food at the very least?”

Vanitas stared at him in disbelief. Ven seemed to take his non-response as answer enough and headed to the barn doors. He swung them wide open, letting in a chilly blast of air that forced the shiver out of Vanitas. He gripped the glaive tight, prepared for a possible ambush, but when he peeked outside of the barn, it was still only Ven.

What the night had obscured before, Vanitas could now see. A fairly nice manor in the distance stood proud on the knoll of a hill, great deciduous trees crowning it. Much further in the distance were the mountains that had always plagued Vanitas’ memory. He knew the castle would bank to the right of those mountains. 

Between manor and barn was a large pasture, and Ven set down the well-worn dirt path. Morning dew clung to grass and leaves, and the wind bent the tips of the dark forest surrounding them. Birds were barely beginning to chirp, and Vanitas realized Ven must’ve woken up at the crack of dawn to come check on the animals, and had found Vanitas in the process. He was such a fool, not having put two and two together to plan ahead for the potential caretaker. 

“Aqua’s barely making breakfast,” Ven spoke over his shoulder, pitched swinging loosely from his grasp after Vanitas had greedily drank it all. “Terra’s grabbing the logs for the fire though. Your lips are blue, you know?”

Vanitas lifted a hand to investigate, as if he could feel it, but all of him felt fairly numb. He was numb inside, too. Even though he knew this could just be a trap, he still followed Ven. What difference would it make if he died inside a warm house, or outside in the cold?

True to his word, however, breakfast was being made, and a big beast of a man was stoking a fire to life. Terra accepted Vanitas’ presence easily, but Aqua scowled at him. They broke fast, and Vanitas devoured his plate, plus seconds, too starved to care for propriety. This softened Aqua up some, and Vanitas rolled his eyes. He was used to pity, at this point.

Afterwards, Ven took him upstairs to offer a change of clothes.

“You know,” Ven began conversationally, as Vanitas inspected the personality of the room. There was more books than Vanitas would’ve believed if he hadn’t seen it himself. “The crown prince’s coronation is soon.”

Vanitas froze, a hand on Ven’s icy window forgotten. 

“I met the prince once,” Ven said conspiratorially, “we’re nobles, not that it matters much since we’re on the border. Too far for court.” He flapped a tunic out and inspected it, before clicking his tongue and stuffing it away unfolded. “He’s funny. A little goofy, honestly, but a good person. I think he’ll be better than his father.” Then, alarmed, Ven added hastily, “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

The glass was beginning to burn him, and Vanitas spoke around the rock in his throat, eyes fixated on the dense trees he could see. “He’s that old already?”

He could feel the curious look from Ven. “Guess so. It’s a shame what happened to the first prince… they never did find him. I was pretty young then too, but I don’t think they even really tried. I always wonder what he would’ve been like.” He laughed, the easy humor from someone who had no idea what they were talking about.

Vanitas’ eyes were stinging. For the first time in what felt like forever, he’d been given a warm meal, shared together over a dinner table filled with people, instead of isolated in his room. He was looked after, asked if he was cold, sneakily given sweets snuck out from under Aqua’s eagle eyes. He’d actually laughed, when Terra had spilled the sweet wine over straight onto the cream colored table spread. 

And his family hadn’t even  _ bothered  _ to find him.

“When’s the coronation?” Vanitas asked, forcing pressure against the window until his fingertips turned white, hoping Ven wouldn’t wonder why his voice cracked.

“This spring.”

* * *

“I hated you!” Vanitas put his weight into the glaive, watching it slide deeper into Sora, red blooming from his chest as Sora wetly gasped. “Always,  _ always!” _

Sora scrabbled at the blade but it was no use. It had speared him straight through, blade emerging freely from his back, royal raiment ruthlessly stained, scarlet saturating pristine white and spreading through the fibers in thin searching lines, like ink dropped into water. His blunt nails found Vanitas’ hands, grasping pointlessly as Vanitas tightened his grip and shoved harder.

_ “Vanitas,” _ Sora cried, tears welling up in his eyes.

_ Go on,  _ Vanitas seethed, seeing the hint of blood in his mouth,  _ cry. None of this compares to the agony of suffering that I’ve experienced. You don’t know pain, you don’t know hurt. You can’t possibly understand. _

One hand lifted up, reaching for Vanitas, and he sneered. Sora could grab him all he wanted. The deed was done. The castle was wailing, the fires roaring. A symphony of sound, all singing the chorus of Vanitas’ vengeance.

Hot lifeblood coated Vanitas’ cheek as Sora cupped his face. The road of the fire was oppressively loud, the heat burning his skin and eyes even from this distance. Every drop of water in the air had been consumed, everything so dry it felt like a wildfire could start with just a brush of skin against cloth. Sora’s blood dripped freely to the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” Sora whispered, voice weak. 

Vanitas stared.

“I didn’t know,” he continued, so soft beneath the roars. “I heard they’d taken you in the fire. I could barely remember your face, but I always knew you’d come back.” He laughed, and something wet bubbled in it. Vanitas wondered what Sora’s laugh sounded like when it wasn’t being choked by blood. His thumb swiped across Vanitas’ cheek. “We look just alike.”

They did, from their eyes to their nose to the way their hair could never be tamed. Vanitas wondered, if in another life, he would’ve laughed the same as Sora. 

_ “What?” _ Vanitas croaked, every single preconception splintering apart.

Sora’s hand dropped away from him, and painstakingly, wincing, he reached up to his own necklace. The glaive protruding from his chest seemed unreal as Sora moved around it. Vanitas had seen his fair share of death, but something about the grace Sora accepted it with stunned him. With clumsy fingers, Sora unclipped his necklace, then grasped blindly for Vanitas’ hand on the glaive. Unthinking, Vanitas allowed him.

As is knowing he was lost, Sora barely summoned the energy to grasp Vanitas’ face again. 

The crown necklace, the emblem of their empire, the mark of the ruler.

Stained with Sora’s blood.

“For you,” Sora whispered, blue eyes bright as he smiled. “It was always yours.”

“No,” Vanitas said, shaking his head. Sora’s strength seemed to finally give way, and Vanitas followed him to the floor, grasping Sora in his arms.  _ “No, no!  _ None of this makes  _ sense!” _

Xehanort had whispered to him, in dry, hoarse words, that it’d been a plot against him. Sora’s mother had wanted power. His father hadn’t loved him. He was illegitimate. He was worthless. They’d thrown him away, paid for his abduction, a horrible black mar on the shining royal family’s history.

Sora laughed weakly, and in the far distance, a large edifice crashed as its foundation gave way, giving more life to the raging fire. Distantly, Vanitas knew his time to escape was running out. “It’s not your fault,” Sora said, and Vanitas didn’t understand. “Neither of us knew, for so long… Kind of wish I could’ve grown up with a big brother. Being a prince wasn’t always fun.”

He looked off to the side, where the crest on the back of a fallen knight could be seen, curling like a flower, and then the tears started in earnest.

“Sora,” Vanitas whispered, and with a jolt he realized it was the first time he’d said his name.

“I don’t blame you,” Sora continued, in that same tremulous, broken voice. “How could I? But I— I don’t want to—”

“I don’t,” he said, his own throat tight. It had been so long since he’d last cried, he almost couldn’t remember how.  _ I don’t know what to do. I can’t fix this. I’ve never fixed anything.  _

Sora seemed to understand. He sniffled, and gave a kind of helpless laugh. Reaching out further, he threaded his hand through Vanitas’ hair at the back of his head, bringing him forward until their foreheads knocked together. It struck Vanitas as so painfully familial and unfamiliar that his breath hitched. All he could see was Sora’s face, not even shadowed because the fire was so great, a beast that made Sora’s eyes glow. Vanitas knew with certainty that he’d never forget this.

“There’s more to you,” Sora began, words barely fighting their way free, “than what everyone says. You could have been king.” His fingers dug in painfully. “You could be so much more. I’ll always believe in you.”

Sora spoke with such conviction, the royalty in his birthright standing tall. Vanitas bitterly resented having missed it.

_ You’re wrong,  _ he thought,  _ I’m just a blood starved beast who hurt you. There’s nothing beautiful about me. _

“Do me a favor?” Sora whispered, and Vanitas could see him fighting to stay. A clumsy touch brushed Vanitas’ knuckles that clutched Sora’s necklace.

“What?” Vanitas whispered back.

“Keep it close to you.”

* * *

In the end, the castle was saved by a spring rain. By the time the flames abated, the only one left of the royal family was so-far lost prince Vanitas. 

As he sat in the empty throne room, whose burnt banners had yet to be replaced, he wondered when his life had gone so wrong. Was it Xehanort’s death? Or his parents’ fault? Would he had been happier, if he’d never known he was born a prince?

The heavy doors creaked open, and Vanitas looked up to find Ven. He was alone, without his friends for once, and as he crossed the grand room his steps echoed. When he breached the edge of the dome of light, Vanitas looked away. There was no stain there now, scrubbed clean, but he still couldn’t look at it.

“You know,” Ven began, like all those months ago, “I met Sora, once.”

“You’ve told me,” Vanitas hissed, drawing in on himself.

“Yeah,” Ven snorted, but he came closer, until he stopped right in front of Vanitas. “And you know what?”

The echoing silence felt unreal. He’d only ever known the castle with the accompaniment of roaring rage. “What?”

“You look just alike. I knew, Vanitas.” Then, he laughed lightly, rubbing under his nose. “You weren’t really good at hiding it anyways.”

Vanitas considered this, and then he laughed. And laughed, leaning back, arms around his stomach, until tears stung his eyes. What a fucking joke.

“That’s treason you know,” Vanitas said, just barely making his wobbly voice last, “why didn’t you even stop me?”

Ven shrugged, and he sat on the armchair. He looked at the circle of light like he  _ knew  _ even though he couldn’t possibly. “I just think the truth was more important. We don’t live on the border for no reason, after all.”

With Ven beside him, he felt just a little less cold. Maybe this was what thawing felt like. He reached up, grasping the crown necklace nestled in the base of his throat. 

_ I will. _

**Author's Note:**

> Writing a back and forth narrative was really fun, and I hope you enjoyed reading the story unfold! Thank you to the mods and all the contributors who worked together to make this zine come true, and of course a big thanks to every single person who purchased a copy!


End file.
